


Pretty boy

by A_Nobelmonster



Series: Distill the spirit [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Abuse, CSA, Clothes Sharing, Drug Use, M/M, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, andrew-centric, prostitute andrew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8578372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Nobelmonster/pseuds/A_Nobelmonster
Summary: Prostitute!Andrew w/ eventual Kandriel





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the pieces i started in NanoWrimo, I've collected several unfinished works so i though i would publish them here and finish them as people showed interest/ i got inspired.

When you're fourteen nothing prepares you for life. 

Not when your wax-skinned mother grasps your hand from across the kitchen table. Not when she says, “Baby, baby I need you to help me. Can you do that for mama?” because you don’t want to disappoint her even as she metaphorically gives you the rib spreaders to pluck out your own heart. She gives you the tools to destroy yourself but you love her and your fourteen.

She’s the only family you have so your hands shake when you crank open your chest cavity. Your tendons quiver with the hot breath of the man your mama lets in the door, who lays you on the bed soft and slow like your his last meal.

Your mouths dry from the joint she put on your tongue as you waited for the stranger to come over. 

to ruin you.

You still smell the wood of the kitchen table under your fingernails from where you sat tensely , awaiting the gallows that your own mother lead you too.

She cried and pulled at her hair until greasy strands pull free in her fingers . You knew the minute she asked you to sleep with someone to pay off her debts you would. A flower in the gutter dreams of the sky but adapts to the darkness. You won’t let yourself cry.

You won’t let yourself mourn the passing of your childhood because you buried that corpse long ago. And now it’s ghost haunts you , “you will never be anything more than a tool of your own destruction.”

In school, you are learning about the Greeks and Romans. Your teacher spent a week talking about the Greek tragedies. You get it. Everyone likes to watch a trainwreck. In all the stories they covered there were no happy heroes. You are not a hero but you sympathize because your whole life is a well-orchestrated tragedy. Being whored out on your birthday is the climax. The resolution is that some day you will die.

You hold onto this. You gorge yourself on the idea until it intoxicates your nerve endings and you barely feel the brush of matured fingers over your throat, the way they delicately squeeze as if you are a peach.

You don’t believe in lies so you won’t start now. You know you are a soft boy with bruised skin. You know that everyone can see the teeth marks on your soul.

Losing your virginity- no that makes it sound like you misplaced it. Like you can no longer find your favorite shirt- losing makes it sound nothing like it was. It doesn’t say anything about the way you wept until your eye’s burned. It leaves no connotation for how at age 7 you lost all hope. Your dreams burned away and having your virginity forcibly taken from you can be found nowhere in those docile words.

This doesn’t compare. If you say it enough times maybe it won’t be a lie anymore.

He sweet-talks you with your mother in the next room. Calls you baby when he quiets you with his thick fingers in your mouth. He softly says good boy, while guiding you over his dick . And when he scratches into your hips pulling you flush to his pelvis, he chokes out “beautiful”. And you just choke.

In a world where Tilda Minyard never took you back from foster care at twelve, a sweet boy calls you beautiful in the warm summer evening on the cusp of sixteen where you spend moments loving every curve of his body.

In a world where you are the twin sent to live with Luther- you meet tragedy all the same because some are born with it in their veins.

The difference is that you pricked your finger on the right spinning wheel earlier in life, you didn’t spend years waiting for the inevitable.

He leaves with the impression of his dried lips on your forehead.

What a delicate form of decay. Is this the same awe Persephone felt while still dripping pomegranate juice from her gaping maw?

To know that you had made home in the quaking landscape of your soul.

and now you can never return.


	2. Make me wholly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do not forsake your past for it is given flesh and blood. It lives and dies as you do.

Is it that you can’t breathe?

Is it that you don’t want to?

Could it be that for every expansion and compression of her chest, something is stolen from you?

Most likely it is the look of misguided kindness soon to be replaced with damnation but it won’t even before for the correct reason. The one molding inside each dark cavernous place in your body, rotting in the damp too warm darkness .

“I’d like to offer you a scholarship Andrew. “ but you have terms. Aaron, Nicky and your regrets.

And your burden

And the small life occupying the space between your arms.

Olivia. You had been so out of it, so cold from blood loss supplemented by tears. You had reached into the chasm of cosmic neural synapses pulling the same from a dying star.

From the books that one soft skinned foster sister had read to you in the winters early evenings. A small girl who was not really a girl. Who was part something else.

Olivia is part something else. She is part of a curse that lives in your skin that calls itself life. She is half of everything you are . she is a half a monster.

You lay your terms as the wall of Jericho. You expect disaster but you are granted your fortress.

Your twin, your cousin and your daughter.

You remember the taste of regret in your mouth as you let a man kiss you after he laid his words into your mouth because he sets a twenty besides you when he’s done.

and your mother held for one brief moment before exchanging sachets of powder with the same frail hands. Bruising with desire. 

You remember the smell of blood with a knife against your throat while another man cuts into you. Over and over again. First his hands. Then his dick.

You recall ancient acts of perversion as Delphi predicted war. They are the same things. They end the same for you.

You are not used to this. Carefully closed mouths or optimistic exy scholarships. You are not used to chances so you will not let yourself be.

Regret is as useless as the white dwarf within the confines of your chest. Cold. imploding.

You purged it from your lexicon when you held your daughter's name in the same sentence.

“Welcome to the Palmetto State foxes.” you have been welcomed to gates of hell once. When you were fourteen.

You have the tarnished halo between your teeth to prove it. The bloodied stumps where wings had been remised to grow.

You sign doing so with blood but it is all a guise of pageantry.

No one need show you around your own kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more pretty yet pretentious nonsense.  
>  i guess this in partial prose, not really a poem kind of just bastard thing im not fond of to stop. 
> 
> oh hey look i gave Andrew a daughter. Im all about that holiday giving spirit. ahah.


	3. derelicts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quote from Richard Siken.

“Tell me the story about how we take corpses from the river and make them warm again.”

Tell me of the story where you do not lay wounded and the morning does not taste of old pennies under your tongue. In your lungs. 

Where you are not a dead thing or a dying thing. 

You are a sun thing like me. That’s what Olivia says when she smiles. 

She has no words stitched to her larynx but her small white fist, delicate shell pink nails hold onto him asking for him to be ok. 

You wipe her mouth with faded terrycloth, her cheek washed in strawberry juice. You kiss her forehead because you are nineteen and missing important organs but you will not let her know this. 

You are both learning about object permanence. Where does a heart go if not in your chest? 

Practice, after you have seen her off to Bee's, is bitter. Kevin steps onto the court like cracked milk thistle. He’s a mess that hurts your tongue. 

His hand is bandaged like he has been knocking on every door asking for a new home. 

Wymack never keeps a closed door so it’s possible but you it was a Ravens beak that snapped those fine carpal bones. 

Kevin is wounded, leaking pride and you smile. He frowns. 

He pushes you against ten feet of plexiglass and you ask with your knife if he would like to make a donation to Charon. 

Fear makes you whole, your hands smell of formula. You step back and breathe. Step back and breathe. 

 

“Ouchie” Kevin's breast pocket is scarlet. A generous wound for a grievous misdemeanor. 

The taller man is a quivering idea. It’s a flesh wound, Kevin has never had someone run their bloody fingers along his heart and lung. 

Andrew leaves the court, tired of listening to children that are not his own whine. 

tired, tired, tired.


	4. Iamb skin children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew makes a deal with Kevin.
> 
> thanks to @aphrodithe who graciously supplied the second line.

In the glory of God.

Fingers, unhinged, porcelain limbs connected by elastic string.

“I will give you purpose”

Wise men sing to me, ‘You should be an adult but your still fourteen where it counts. Your are not prepared.’

Who is to atone for this?

Kevin see’s you as a monster of terrible beauty and you see. You see a doll.

An uncared for plaything passed from children’s hands in ritual. Your mother broke the joint of your bird fine legs. The men after her your neck, head never sitting right.

Pieta. The one who holds you are your own strings.affixed with asphyxiation. 

“Protect me from my past and I will give you a tomorrow.”

Your reason for living extends eighteen years from the first terrible trembling breath. That is an extension on your life sentence that lesser would consider a gift.

Blood painted on your door.

The man before you is asking for a chance, that you both know what can be held if only you are there to hold it.

He thinks he can change nature. A raven thinks himself divine. That your body will not further wear to the circumstance of cruel infantile joy.

“Its a promise.” You have tea and play games and make up rules that hold no court in the natural world.

What a new thing to play with

He is eight where he should be 21. You are not the only child sacrificed in time to trauma.

Your lamb skin cheek touch prayer to praying.

But the box is open, fear only remains and you want to know if only fear remains where is it’s fraternal soulmate hope?

Is it this cupped palm of snapped tendons heavy with gold?

These glass lilies on high?

The child in your chest refusing to die, a magician’s box full of your own knives and yet it yearns to be saved.

one more wish to pay sacrament to innocence lost.


	5. A bad man walks in my skin

She asks, daddy who are you?

why are you burning on my birthday candles?

Thumb between her milk teeth and fat baby cheek .

Your a bad man,

so you say it.

fifty eyes and a hundred hearts and no hands

father and mother and not enough for either.

dying in your sleep and waking with ashes instead of sand in your eyes.

Maybe she hands you her rubber duck so you don’t drowned in yourself

Because one year is added to both your lives

Its another breath after the last one, just one more

And then another

All of the foxes on the wood they see the knife before the fear

To them you are the hunter

But she’s held your hands and she knows your tachycardia like the smell of the shampoo you use

She’s crawls forward knowing that the knife is meant for you

You are the hunted

She remembers truths like you,

You are starry night lights,

You are my sunshine and goodnight moon

Watermelon kisses

Berry bear hugs

A childhood in the highest tower away from

you.

What you think you are capable of

what others have shown hides in the shadows of broken bones they broke themselves.

If to be touched by angel makes you wholly,

Then being desecrated by demons

This is something you know.

So you say happy birthday, i can’t abandoned you but i should because i can’t touch myself without bleeding

What will i do to you?


End file.
